Edward Comes Home
by Catherine Spark
Summary: This story is set immediately after the ending of the film. As her grandmother goes to bed in the other room, eight year old Callie sneaks out the window and up to the old house...
1. Chapter 1

**Finding Edward**

"Night-night, darling. Sweet dreams."

Callie's grandmother kissed her, switched off the bedside light, lingered for a moment at the door looking down at her as she lay in the far-too-large bed, and slipped out.

After she had gone, Callie lay awake, turning over in her mind the extraordinary story her grandmother had just told her. It wasn't true, of course. It couldn't be true. Why would someone making a human being put scissors where the hands should be at any point in the process?

Then there was the haunted house. Callie remembered her great uncle Kevin – a property developer – explaining to her that when no family member came forward to claim inheritance of a house, it and its plot of land went on the general market. This meant that anyone could buy it at any time – for very little money, since the house was so run down. Great uncle Kevin had said that in such situations, new occupants usually tore the existing house down, erected an entirely new one on the site, sold it off and made a tidy profit. He had never been the most imaginative at bedtime stories, and he used a lot of big words she didn't always understand. Still, it had just been nice to have him sit on her bed and hold her hand while he talked at her in his inimitably blustery but kind manner. Usually he had talked about anything but the things which Grandma had said mattered; when things got too heavy he would bluster, and frequently got told off for it by Grandma. But that capacity for easy small talk had proved an invaluable anaesthetic to everyone when her parents… Anyway, he had got a poorly heart and gone to be with them too just three months ago, so it was just her and Grandma now.

Callie wasn't tired – not a bit – but she was hot. The fire had died down to embers, but its heat was still intense. She slid out of bed and padded across the floor to the window. If somebody called Edward with scissors for hands really lived in the old mansion on the hill, he deserved to know that people were soon coming to buy it and knock it down. The catch on the window was rusty and stiff, but she was able to wrench it loose using both her hands and her full body weight. It opened easily after the catch shifted. She stuck her head out, and drew in the cold night air through her nose. She could smell the crystallised water from the snowflakes – sharp, almost metallic. She let her breath go again, and watched the cloud billow out before whipping away on the wind. Perhaps Grandma knew why people breathed clouds in the cold too – she would ask he tomorrow. The light from the street lamps illuminated the flakes as they swirled past. She heard a quiet click, and saw that the pale light coming under her bedroom door was gone.

The window opened onto a flat roof, which sloped down to a short drop into a large tea bush. Grandma usually trimmed it in early June. Callie always delighted in gathering up the clippings, stripping the leaves off them, and collecting them in her favourite blue plastic bucket. Afterwards the two of them would share what Grandma referred to as 'real tea', sitting opposite each other like grown up ladies at the picnic bench on the lawn.

Grandma never lied. Her parents had known it. Great uncle Kevin had known it, and had

reminded her of it often, counselling her to follow her Grandma's example. Not even white lies - which were lies intended for a good purpose – or lies by omission – which meant not saying something which wasn't the case, but still leaving out important bits to disguise or hide the truth. So it seemed completely out of keeping that she would now claim to have been there with Edward if she in fact hadn't been, or if there was nobody called Edward.

It wouldn't be a big drop, Callie thought, looking at it now. And Grandma was a deep sleeper. Grandma always went to bed at nine O'clock at night and got up at eight O'clock in the morning. She claimed that was the secret to her good health. That and the fact she was a deep sleeper. It was unlikely she would wake up now, or find out if Callie went investigating. Of course, if she did find out, or if she happened to ask, Callie knew she would have to tell the truth. But no harm in keeping quiet about it otherwise. And she hadn't expressly promised not to go exploring at night, or to climb out the window or on the roof.

The snow _did_ seem to be thicker in the direction of Mansion Hill, Callie thought, as she heaved open the top drawer of the chest in her bedroom open. She put on two of her great uncle's old sweaters, and pulled out a tatty red blanket. Grandma liked to be well stocked up in case of power cuts. Then she climbed carefully out onto the roof and slid down – slightly losing control and landing rather harder than she meant to in the tea bush. Oh well – it had all winter and spring to sort itself out before Grandma checked on it. Already regretting not wearing slippers, she started up the road towards the hill.

By the time she reached the gates of the house, Callie's feet were numb. She had considered going back several times, but the house had seemed a very long walk away, and she didn't think she would be able to make it. She was glad she had put on the extra sweaters – although even with them on she was shivering violently, and the paralysing cold was creeping from her toes up her shins, sucking the warmth from her.

The gates of the mansion were locked, but the wood had degraded to the point that several of the planks were loose, and could be pushed aside using their corroding nails as hinges. She squeezed through. The garden was lit only by moonlight. The cloudless sky felt strange, seeing as the snow was falling more thickly than ever. She gasped, and gazed around. The grounds glinted with strange, beautiful, looming ice figures – angels, a lion shaking its mane and roaring, an eagle in mid-flight, and many more – four of which she could not identify what they were. The whole thing reminded her of the White Witch's castle in _The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe._ She shivered again, and limped on, her feet having lost all feeling. The snow – she could see – was in fact coming from behind a large chariot-shaped hedge. Feeling suddenly frightened, she crept forward, her breath hitching, and peered round one of the wheels.

The man was standing on a step ladder, and had his back to her. At least, Callie assumed it was a man. He didn't look old. He was a normal sort of height, but nothing else about him was remotely normal. He wore what looked at first glance like a black leather suit of some sort, but which was actually more like a suit of armour, with leather straps and buckles linking different joints together. His hair stuck up in wild spikes and cascades. He was moderately thin, though not wiry. He looked a bit like Uncle Andrew in _The Magician's Nephew_ , except his hair was black, whereas Uncle Andrew's hair was white _._ Callie hoped this man wasn't like Uncle Andrew in temperament and agenda, though. She realised at that moment how alone she was – and how unable to run. She doubted if she'd even be able to walk any significant distance.

The man was working on yet another ice sculpture: two winged horses side by side – a mare and a foal – with their heads lowered towards the ground. They must melt every spring, Callie thought. A never-ending project. Perhaps that was the way he needed it to be.

As he worked, he threw out clouds and clouds of ice shards, which caught on the breeze and were carried over the village below. The thin sliver of his face that Callie could see whenever he leaned over to work on the mare's mane was so pale it looked like the moon itself – and shone in the light of the actual moon. But his most remarkable feature was his hands – or rather, his lack of them. His arms – which flailed this way and that like an out-of-control windmill as he sculpted at high speed – tapered off to gigantic pairs of scissors. They looked like Daddy's hedge trimmers, Mommy's Swiss army knife, and Grandma's fabric-cutters from her sewing kit all rolled into one. The blades of the scissors were clicking away so fast as he sculpted that it was difficult to make them out in the blur.

Callie's voice took a moment to find itself. Something invisible seemed to have its hand around her neck, constricting her breathing. She closed her eyes, forced a few deep breaths, and attempted to slow her pummelling heartrate.

"Mr…Mr Edward?" she whispered at last.

He startled, and steadied himself. The clack-clack-clack fell away to silence, and he stood stock still. His whole body seemed to tense and quiver. She waited. Then, very slowly, he turned towards her…


	2. Chapter 2

**The Years of Exile**

The man looked like a corpse, and Callie caught her breath. She wished her grandma was here now, and suddenly she felt the full cold of the night. The snow clung to her hands and face. Was this really the gentle, well-meaning man that her Grandma had evoked so vividly in her account?

"Who – who are you?" His voice was like snow personified – soft, landing gently, even hesitantly, on the listener's ears. The words threatened to melt away before you could process what he'd said.

"I'm called Callie." Her teeth chattered. Edward's head tipped slowly to the side. His eyes wandered over her, searching, not quite seeming to find their focus. Or maybe he just couldn't quite believe she was really there.

"Are you scared?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "No." And as she said it, she realised that it was true. The fear had been a knee-jerk reaction to those awful scissors, and to the deathly white, shockingly scarred face. Now that she had spoken to him that knee-jerk reaction had faded. "Are you?"

His mouth and eyes relaxed from their pinched, wide mask, into a tiny smile. It was incredible how it transformed his whole posture. Yes, this was the man her grandma had told her about. "No, not…really," he answered.

She giggled. Edward climbed slowly down from his step ladder.

"Aren't you really cold?" she asked him.

He looked confused. "Cold…?" Her shivering intensified, and he drew in a sharp breath, as though his memory had been jogged. "Oh…oh yes. I'm sorry. I forgot that. Do you need a blanket or…or something? There's one inside..."

She glanced back at the house. It didn't look very inviting. Cobwebbed gargoyles framed the front doors, and a hole gaped high up in the roof. The windows looked very dark.

"It's all right," Edward reassured her. He started to lead the way, but when Callie tried to follow him, her numb feet refused to obey her brain's orders. She stumbled. He turned, saw her struggles, reached out his arms towards her, then drew them back again – looking as if he might cry.

"I could ride on your shoulders?" Callie suggested, realising his dilemma.

His face brightened. "How does that work?"

She beckoned him over. He obeyed like a dog.

"Stoop right down". He did so, and she swung a leg over his upper shoulders, as if she was getting onto a pony – being careful not to slash herself on his scissors, which were folded across his chest. He was surprisingly warm. His hair was silkier to the touch than it looked. His shoulders felt harder and colder – like a leather covered, iron-plated table, but she could feel him breathing, and could even feel the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of a powerful heart somewhere deep inside. She found herself in awe of the inventor. To have created life from non-life – that wasn't invention, that was magic. No – not magic – more like Aslan creating Narnia in _The Magician's Nephew._ She could well imagine the inventor singing a person like Edward into being. Singing the nerves and muscles, the blood, the bone, the organs – singing the soul into him. And for all she knew, perhaps he had done.

"Now I hold onto you with my feet and hands. You don't have to use your…your…hand-things at all." though he flinched at first when she gripped his head, he relaxed again immediately.

"Now you can stand up and walk," Callie commanded. Something about his submissiveness brought out the bossy madam in her. Slowly, hesitantly but wonderfully – even majestically – he rose to his feet, a little wobbly at first but quickly gaining confidence. Unbeknownst to Callie, as they walked towards the house, he had the biggest smile on his face.

Twenty minutes later the two were seated in one of the smaller, sturdier chambers of the house. Edward had found some oil lamps and matches, and Callie – remembering a camping trip with her grandma two summers ago – had clumsily lit them. Normally she would not ever be allowed to play with matches, but since the room was made of stone and devoid of furniture or carpets, she didn't think there would be much danger. Edward had brought in a rug and some cushions, which he had found stored in a large chest in the hallway, hooking his scissors through the hems to carry them through. Now the feeling surged painfully back into Callie's feet as she sat wrapped in the warm nest he had built for her. He himself sat cross legged on the floor, staring into the flame. Neither of them spoke for a long time – Callie waiting for the usual grown up small talk, Edward waiting for…well, to be honest, Edward not really waiting for anything; not even considering that any sort of talk might be expected at all. But then, he wasn't used to unfamiliar company.

"Weren't you lonely?"

He raised his head. "Lonely?"

"Yes. Up here all alone. My grandma said everyone thought you were dead."

"Your grandma?"

"Yes. She told me all about how you make ice sculptures and the snow blows all over the town. Sometimes you can still catch her dancing in it."

Edward's mouth dropped open. His eyes widened, then filled. He put his head down, swallowed, and tears dropped onto his hands. Callie wiped them away with her sleeve, so he wouldn't freeze or rust up. Great Uncle Kevin had a nail gun in the garage, and he was always worried that grit or water would rust its works. Salt and water rusted iron, he said. She didn't know if Edward's hands were made of iron, but better safe than sorry.

"You know Kim?" Edward choked out.

"Yes. She's my daddy's mommy."

"She got married…?"

"No." Another confused look. "She says that when two grown-ups think they love each other, sometimes they have a baby together. But sometimes when we think we love someone we make a mistake." Edward's mouth worked, but he didn't speak. "She made a mistake about who she loved, but she still had a baby who was my daddy. And my daddy and mommy had me. I'm eight now." It was Callie's turn to drop her gaze. "They didn't come back."

"Back?" He reached a hand towards her, and she carefully touched one of the blades with the back of her hand. It was smooth, and felt lukewarm.

"Back from the mountains."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"It's OK," Callie reassured him, "It wasn't your fault."

He smiled again. "I know."

They both stared into the flame again. Then Callie spoke: "It must have been so lonely for you, up here all these years with nobody to talk to."

"I had someone to talk to." It was barely audible, and yet Callie heard it unmistakably. Instantly she was on alert, eyes and ears peeled for some other creature in the house – some movement in a corner. "For a while, at least."

"Who?"

"Kim's mother. Peg."

Callie blinked. "But…Grandma said everyone thought you were dead."

He nodded. "Everyone except her. She said she could tell when her daughter was lying. And even if it had been the truth, she would have come up here anyway to find my body and bury it properly. She loved me like a son. That's what she said." His voice hitched, but there was a fond smile on his face. "She brought me books. They had pictures in them. I made them into sculptures. And she brought cookies too. Always at night, when everyone was asleep. She walked here at least once a week until she got too sick."

"I'm glad you weren't alone." Callie reached out and touched his foot. He didn't shy away. "My grandma said she wanted you to remember her the way she was," she explained. "She's an old lady now. Her skin is all wrinkly, and she walks sort of bent over, like this." She did an impression for him from where she was sitting. "Also, her hair is a different colour now, and she's got a raspy voice."

Edward's eyes widened, like two pools, reflecting the candlelight. "Did she think I'd be afraid of her?"

Callie shifted uncomfortably, and frowned. "I don't know..."

"She wasn't afraid of how I looked," he persisted, his jaw setting. "Not once she got used to me. So I wouldn't have been afraid of her either. She was silly."

They both contemplated the sad, sorry mess of the whole thing. "Well, grown-ups can be funny sometimes," Callie concluded.

Edward's face grew soft again, and he looked at her with gentle affection, mixed with gratitude. "Yes. They can."

 _ **To be continued…**_


End file.
